


Flightless Birds

by makeit_takeit



Series: All Caps [5]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Boys In Love, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Internalized Homophobia, Intimacy, M/M, Podfic Available, Rare Pairings, Rare Relationships, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:09:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22734616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeit_takeit/pseuds/makeit_takeit
Summary: Tom's history with women has painted a certain picture, has built up his credentials as a legit, card-carrying heterosexual, has given him a freedom Nic will never have to skirt the line: he’s free to leave flirty comments and boys-holding-hands emojis on teammates’ Instagram content, to post questionably intimate photos of himself canoodling with his teammate on their shared sofa and make silly innuendos about his bros.So, whatever – fuckinggood for Tom.But that’s not Nic’s life, that’s not his world, not his reality. Nic knows what Tom doesn’t seem to, which is that kind of behavior can only fly when it's accompanied by the necessary, socially-sanctioned, publicly visible offsetting behavior of, y’know.Fucking girls.
Relationships: Nic Dowd/Tom Wilson
Series: All Caps [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1375639
Comments: 148
Kudos: 469





	Flightless Birds

**Author's Note:**

> I had fully intended to write some timely and (relatively) lighthearted Valentine’s Day smut, yet somehow I ended up taking us way back to the summer, slogging through a bunch of Nic Dowd’s pre-season feelings instead. Exactly how that happened remains unclear, but here we are.
> 
> The initial inspiration for the opening scene was that one video from the 2019 off-season of a post-workout Jakub Vrana collapsed on the ground, which I am unable/too tired to locate at this time. I hope you know the one I mean.
> 
> UPDATE: Helpful reader **Intrepid (Odddreamsofdoom)** has provided [this](https://thornescratch.tumblr.com/post/186796573488/trainer-how-was-it-today-jakub-vrana-collapsed) link to the Vrana clip, FOR SCIENCE. Thanks for the assist!
> 
> Thanks to all of you who continue to encourage me to write more of these two. I apologize in advance for the lack of porn.

“So you’re in Canada with Willy?”

Nic is loading the dishwasher, trying to find a way to fit the giant metal tongs Tom used to grill the Red Snapper into Tom’s tiny, Toronto-high rise-condo-sized dishwasher, wondering – not for the first time - if that big grill out on Tom’s miniature balcony is actually allowed in the building, when Jens calls.

Nic’s not really prepared, or even, like, sure how that information has gotten out of Greater Toronto and all the way to Jens in Minnesota, but -.

“Uh, yeah?”

What else can he say, really, when obviously Jens already knows?

“Just, you know. Training, or whatever.”

“Dude, how did _that_ turn into a thing?” Jens wants to know, and simultaneously Nic’s phone starts to buzz with alerts.

First up is a text from Jeff that says _Since when are you in Toronto with Tom Wilson? I thought you were in DC?_

That’s followed by a bunch of Instagram alerts, and Nic’s heartrate kicks up immediately, because what in the actual fuck?

“Uh, you know,” he tries to remember what Jens even asked, while he’s thumbing over to open his Insta, which he rarely ever does. “Just – ‘m always trying to bulk up, you know, and Willy’s - uh.”

Nic sees immediately what the source of all the commotion is.

It’s a video posted by Tom.

Specifically, a video of _Nic _posted by Tom, from earlier this evening, when they finished their afternoon workout.

He’s on his back in the grass, knees up and feet flat on the ground, shirt pulled up over his face, sucking air and writhing in pain from the last set of drills Tom’s trainer put them through.

“How are your summer workouts going, Dowder?” Tom, that fucking asshole, asks from behind the camera, still on his feet, looking down at Nic and laughing like a _fucking asshole_.

Video-Nic just raises a middle finger, face still covered by his sweaty t-shirt, bared chest and stomach still heaving, knees falling open with his baggy basketball shorts riding up high on his thighs.

“No pain no gain, baby,” Tom crows, barely even sounding winded, then the video stops.

Tom tagged him, captioned it _Putting in work!!!_

Nic didn’t even know he recorded that video, much less _posted_ it. And Nic’s insta is private, but _Tom’s_ fucking isn’t.

“Jimmy?” Jens says after Nic’s silent for too long, “did I lose ya?”

“Sorry,” Nic says, still scrolling, and then lies through his teeth, “I think you cut out for a minute.”

It says the video was posted 4 minutes ago, and it already has over 200 likes, including Jens and both Nic’s brothers, like how the fuck? He peeks around the corner of the kitchen, and there’s Tom, just lying on the sofa, fucking around on his phone without a care in the world.

Like he’s not out there blowing Nic’s shit up like a _fucking asshole_.

“I asked how the hell you got hooked up with Willy? Last I heard you were heading back to DC from your folks’ place.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” Nic tries to sound normal – like, calm, or whatever. “Just, uh – you know, I’m always looking to put on weight, get bigger or whatever, and. I dunno, I guess I mentioned it to Willy at some point, and he just. Y’know. Offered, like - if I wanted to come up.”

“Right on,” Jens says, “Whatever he’s doing, it’s obviously working, right? I just didn’t know you were up there. Gotta be a lot nicer for August than ‘bama, huh? Or even DC, really.”

“For sure,” Nic agrees, refreshing his screen again. 300 likes now, including a couple of Caps besides just Jens. “Uh, yeah, I mean – it’s nice. Been good weather, so far.”

“How long you been up there?” Jens asks, and Nic cringes internally. In truth it was five weeks yesterday, but that’s over a _month_, which sounds - .

_Yeah_.

Like too long to hang out with a teammate in the off season, probably. Unless you’re actually _from_ Toronto like half the league, or you’re like, Crosby and MacKinnon or some shit.

“Couple weeks,” he hedges, and cringes as soon as he says it. A couple weeks is better than a month, but it’s still a long fucking time. “His trainer is really good, so I’m just.” He shrugs to himself, alone in Tom’s kitchen, like that will help sell how totally nonchalant he is about all this.

“I’m just trying to give it some time. I really want to bring it next season, ya know?”

“Definitely,” Jens says, and he doesn’t sound like he thinks anything is weird about what Nic’s saying, or anything, but -.

Nic refreshes again. 500 likes, and now there are a bunch of comments, too, and Jesus Christ, how many followers does Tom _have_?

Nic really wishes there was a fucking chair or something in this kitchen.

Instead he props himself on his elbows on the counter and reminds himself to breathe, while Jens goes on for a while about his own summer workouts, about hanging out on the lake, about golfing, about whatever. Stuff Nic would probably be interested in, under normal circumstances, but right now - .

“Hey, Jenny, sorry bud,” Nic cuts in, “I got a call coming in from my mom, so ya know.”

“Yep, yep,” Jens laughs, “can’t keep mama Dowd waiting. Tell her I say hi, and hey, tell Willy not to work you too hard. You boys have fun!”

“Yeah, right, thanks buddy,” Nic says, and hits end.

He takes a deep breath, and steps out of the kitchen.

“Hey, asshole.” Nic takes a few steps into the main room, and Tom’s head pops up from the couch cushion he’s reclined against, eyebrow raised.

“What’s that face for?” he asks, already sounding defensive. “You’re the one that wanted to do dishes - I tried to help!”

Nic rolls his eyes. Like he gives a shit about the dishes, especially when Tom did all the cooking. _Does_ all the cooking. _And_ buys the groceries. And is letting Nic stay here for free, use his utilities, eat his food, piggy-back onto whatever deals Tom’s got going with his trainer and the various gyms around town that they’ve been to over the last several weeks. He’s been driving Nic back and forth to the lake every weekend, taking him out on the boat, showing Nic all his favorite restaurants and insisting on getting the check, showing him around the city – like, basically playing the perfect host even though Nic is kind of.

I mean, in a _de facto_ way, at least. Basically, Nic is like -.

He’s _living with Tom_, pretty much, which is. _Yeah_.

Tom even put food and treats for Arlo on his grocery delivery list, even though Nic _told_ him the health food store two blocks down sells Arlo’s kind of food and Nic could just walk there and get it himself.

So like, basically Tom’s paying for Nic and his dog to live in his house and enjoy his 5-Mil a year lifestyle alongside him like Nic’s some kind of - .

Nic doesn’t even want to finish that sentence, and he isn’t really sure how to feel about any of it, but -.

That’s a problem that will just have to wait, because right now he’s got more pressing issues to deal with. _Right_.

“Dude,” Nic holds up his phone, Tom’s post showing on the screen. With all _737 likes_, to date. “You posted a _video_ of me on _Instagram_.”

Tom’s face relaxes instantly, and he shrugs as he reclines back into his former position, prone against the arm of the sofa.

“Oh, yeah. It’s funny, right?”

“_Funny_?” Nic repeats, in a voice that indicates he very much does not find it funny. The look on Tom’s face slides from nonchalance into confusion.

“Um. And, like. Cute?” He tries, like Nic’s problem is maybe _not enough flattery_.

“Cute?” Nic’s voice is higher pitched than he would like, but he’s incredulous enough that he can’t really help it. “Jesus, Tom.”

Tom looks completely flummoxed.

“Well, I mean,” he starts, watching Nic’s face like maybe it will give him a clue, “maybe more – hot? I mean you’re showing a lot of skin, with your shirt up like that, and all that thigh is like -.”

He stops babbling when Nic covers his face with both hands and growls into his palms.

“_Hot_ is not _better_, you utter fucking asshole!” Nic all but screeches into his hands, eyes still hiding behind his fingers as he sighs, trying to keep his composure. He takes a deep breath, then another, then finally moves his hands, looks Tom in the eye.

“Tom,” he starts, as calmly as he can, “dude. _How _is it possible that you think that _you_ – Tom Wilson, with your eighty billion Insta followers or whatever the fuck - posting a video of _me_ would be – I mean -. _How_?”

Tom has shoved himself up to a sitting position on the sofa, but his eyebrows are still knitted together, forehead wrinkled in a way that very much says he’s not picking up what Nic’s putting down, here.

Nic sighs again, tries a different approach.

“No one knew I was here, before. People _know I’m here_ now, and now it’s a – _thing_. Like, my brother is already texting asking what I’m doing here. _Jens_ already called asking what I’m doing here.”

Tom is starting to look a little less confused, and Nic nods pointedly, shrugs.

“Now people are like, paying attention. Now they’re _all_ gonna wanna know _what I’m doing here_. How long I’ve _been here_, how long I’m _staying_, what we’re _doing_ – do you see?”

Tom’s jaw sets stubbornly.

“No way,” he starts, shaking his head, “nobody cares, babe, come on. There’s nothing weird about teammates working out in the summer. Tons of guys do it. The fans love seeing that shit.”

Nic sighs, sinks down into the armchair and shakes his head.

“That’s -. Look. If I was Osh, or Burky or someone, then sure, okay. But Tom, come on, bud. We’re not.”

He pauses and grits his teeth. It shouldn’t bother him to say what they both know is true.

“We’re not _buddies_, Willy. Not as far as the team knows. Not as far as my _family_ knows. They didn’t even know I was _here_ before, because how am I supposed to explain staying here for the rest of the summer when as far as they’re concerned, you’re just a professional acquaintance they’ve never even heard me _talk_ about?”

Tom’s watching him carefully, face gone a little pale under his summer tan, like he’s never thought of any of this before. Like Nic doesn’t _know_ Tom’s been dodging questions from his friends and family, keeping his activities and his whereabouts as vague as possible since Nic’s been in town. Nic has just been assuming that meant they were on the same page about keeping this whole situation on the low, but apparently not.

Nic can see Tom’s throat work, as he swallows.

“Well,” he says slowly, “is that. I mean. Shit.”

He sucks his tongue against his teeth, blows out a breath through his nose.

“I can take it down?” He tries, but even as he says it Nic can see he already knows it’s a pointless offer. It’s got almost a thousand responses already, and a handful of players plus the Caps official insta account has liked it, which means its already been signal-boosted to tens of thousands _more_ people.

What’s done is done.

Nic lets out a breath and tries rolling his neck, but gives up with a wince halfway through. He was already feeling the effects of the workout at dinner, but now it suddenly feels like his scapulae are knitted together with barbed wire, every movement of his arms and head sending piercing needles of pain digging into his muscles.

“Hey,” Tom says, soft, scooting back into the deep corner of the couch, “c’mere.” He beckons with his hand, positioning himself with one foot on the ground and one leg up along the back of the couch.

Nic know what Tom wants, and he just - lets himself go. He tries not to think too hard about it when Tom pulls him down into the vee of his open legs, gets Nic’s back up against his chest, Nic’s head resting back against his shoulder. Tom wraps his arms tight around Nic’s middle, and Nic’s eyes flutter closed.

“It’s gonna be fine, okay?” Tom noses behind his ear, kisses his neck. “I’ll take care of it; nobody’s gonna think anything about anything, I swear. I don’t want you to worry.”

Nic’s mind is already spinning his story for his parents, his brothers – _I went home to DC just like I said, but I texted Willy for advice on_ \- whatever, lifting or something, Nic will fill in the blanks later - _and he thought maybe I should come up and work out with him for a while, if I really wanted to get stronger, so I figured I’d give it a try_. He thinks he can talk his way around questions about how long he’s been here with vagaries and non-answers straight from the media training handbook, but now that they know he’s _here_, the clock has started. And – he cringes when he remembers how he told Jenny he’s been here a couple of _weeks _already,_ Jesus_.

He knows he’s gonna have to get out of here, and soon, or people 100% most definitely _are_ gonna think something about something, no matter what Tom says.

But for now – _fuck_.

Right now Tom’s digging his thumbs into Nic’s Upper Trapezius, with his nose in Nic’s hairline and his hot breath on Nic’s neck, whispering against Nic’s skin.

“You’re so fuckin’ tense, babe,” Tom’s saying, kneading at the knots in Nic’s shoulders. His hands are so fucking big, and his grip is so strong, Nic lets out a grunt that turns into a series of pained whimpers. Tom huffs out a breath, just the slightest hint of a laugh, and digs his fingers in deeper.

“Just take a deep breath for me, relax,” he says all low and careful, in that sweet voice he uses these days, the one that slides right down Nic’s spine, makes him all warm and shivery. Nic takes a deep breath, lets it out slow while Tom’s hands move methodically, finding just the right spots to press and prod, until the barbed wire between his shoulder blades feels blunted, looser. Until he can put his head all the way down so his chin rests on his chest, and take another slow, deep breath.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Tom whispers into Nic’s hair, “just let me take care of you, yeah?”

His knuckles dig in on either side of Nic’s spine, and Nic leans back into it, adds to the pressure. Tom pushes in and away, in and away, up and down the column of Nic’s back and neck until he stops grunting from the pain-pleasure, and starts moaning, starts rolling his neck a full 360 degrees, nice and loose.

“There,” Tom says again, leaning back into the corner of the sofa and pulling Nic nice and snug back against him, “’s that better?” He gets his left hand deep into Nic’s hair, tugs his head back and to the side so Tom can suck on his exposed neck while he’s sliding his right hand into Nic’s shorts.

“Definitely better,” Nic sighs at him, fingers flexing against Tom’s thighs while Tom strokes him off inside his shorts, murmuring in his ear a bunch of meaningless nonsense about how there’s _nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about._

Nic’s last cogent thought before he loses himself to his orgasm is that even after all these months, Tom still has no fucking idea what he’s gotten himself into.

_

Anytime Nic’s not in a great headspace, in the shower in the mornings is when his thoughts tend to run away with him. Maybe it’s the solitude – mostly any other time of the day or night, Tom’s right there, keeping him occupied – or maybe it’s the fact that he’s actually got the energy to think, right when he wakes up, right until they start their first workout of the day and all his mental stamina and focus slowly start to re-orient themselves to service his more pressing, physical needs.

Possibly he just drinks too much fucking coffee, and should think seriously about skipping that third cup.

Today, specifically, it’s very probably the fact that Nic spent most of last night and a good portion of this morning obsessively watching the reactions to Tom’s post, fielding inquiries from his friends and family about why, when and what he’s doing in Canada with Tom Wilson, and biting the inside of his lip until it left a bloody smudge on the rim of his coffee mug.

So, _yeah_ \- today, specifically, the shower is kicking Nic’s metaphorical ass.

Because today, specifically, Nic is facing the dawning of an unwanted realization.

He’d been assuming, before yesterday, that he and Tom were both operating under the same set of ground rules, that they were both clear on the reality of the situation they find themselves in. Nic thought Tom _understood_ that for this to continue, _secrecy _was the key. That this could _only_ have a chance in hell of maybe, possibly working if no one had any inkling that they were anything more than cordial co-workers and teammates, that certainly they couldn’t ever be seen to be having some sort of public fucking _bromance_, like Tom did with Andre, or for the love of God, Michael Latta.

Because Nic and Tom are two single men hanging out together, absent any handy wives or girlfriends to deflect suspicion, and now that Tom’s taken that to Instagram, that’s a problem they’re gonna have to deal with.

Because Nic is now 29 years old and perpetually single, and very much aware of the fact that his team has never once witnessed him in the company of a woman. But Nic is also a fourth line grinder, a glue guy, not someone anyone pays too much attention to, so that works for him – or at least it did for year one.

When year two plays out the same way, though, with no woman in sight, then year three does the same, he knows the speculation will start, just like it did with the Kings. But Nic’s just the quiet guy at the end of the table, fetching the drinks and contributing a well-timed one-liner for a couple of laughs, he’s not - _integral_. So his teammates might speculate idly about his relationship status, might raise an eyebrow or share a knowing look about how there’s something a little _off_ about Dowder, but at the end of the day, he just doesn’t matter that much.

Being relatively unremarkable has been Nic’s saving grace, in some ways, so far in his career.

Tom, though – Tom’s a whole different story. Tom’s a key guy, a core guy, a _Cornerstone of the Caps Culture_ guy. He _fights_ for them, _literally_ – gets himself beaten and bloodied on a regular basis in the name of protecting his boys, and they love him for it. He has thousands of social media followers and makes multiple millions of dollars per year. Tom – most assuredly - _matters._

The old guard of the Caps, Ovi and Nicky and Carly and Holts, they’ve known him since he was a kid, have watched him grow up on the ice and off. They’ve seen him hanging out and picking up in plain sight, right in front of them, for years now. They’ve seen him with hundreds –.

Okay, maybe not _hundreds_.

But still, they’ve seen him with _plenty_ of women over the years; they’ve known girls he’s dated both short and long term, seen women he’s turned down and women he’s taken home for the night.

And all of that history has painted a certain picture, has built up Tom’s credentials as a legit, card-carrying heterosexual, has given him a freedom Nic will _never_ have to skirt the line: he’s free to leave flirty comments and boys-holding-hands emojis on teammates’ Instagram content, to post questionably intimate photos of himself canoodling with his teammate on their shared sofa and make silly innuendos about his bros.

He’s free to post video of himself joking in an overtly familiar manner with a largely unknown teammate, while said teammate is sprawled on the ground, sweaty and gasping with thighs and stomach and chest exposed, and receive nothing but laughing and clapping and heart eyes emoji responses in the comments, from strangers and friends alike.

So, whatever – fucking _good for Tom_.

But that’s not Nic’s life, that’s not his world, not his reality. Nic knows what Tom doesn’t seem to, which is that kind of behavior can only fly when it's accompanied by the necessary, socially-sanctioned, publicly visible offsetting behavior of, y’know. _Fucking girls._

And Nic and Tom never talked about now Tom was already getting chirped by the team toward the end of last season over his _hiatus_ from the dating scene. The season ended prematurely, and everyone had other things on their mind. But Nic knows it’s going to start up again, right from the go at training camp, and Tom might not be used to parsing the implications of public perceptions, of what kind of behavior begets speculation and suspicion and how best to avoid it, but Nic? Nic’s a fucking _expert_ at that shit.

And even if Tom doesn’t understand what all this means, Nic certainly does.

He stands there in the steam with the hot water beating down on the crown of his head, closes his eyes, and imagines the conversations he could have, the ways this could go.

He could take the high road, the mature route, the smartest and safest course of action for both of them, and just explain to Tom, calmly and rationally, that they can’t keep doing this. That last season was one thing, but the longer this goes on the more suspicious it’s going to seem to people – their families, their friends, their team – and wouldn’t they rather end it on their own terms, on _good_ terms, than to have their hands forced by some embarrassing incident or unforeseen _gotcha_ moment?

But Nic can imagine not only the hurt on Tom’s face - enough to make Nic’s stomach churn - but also the determined set of Tom’s jaw, how pissed he’d be at the very idea, how easily he’d bully Nic into giving up and giving in. It wouldn’t be hard, Nic knows, to talk him out of something he really, _really_ doesn’t want to do in the first place.

So, on to option two.

He could make up some external reason why he has to go back home – death in the family, serious illness, legal issues, whatever. Tom doesn’t know his family, or any of his friends. He’d have no way to know Nic was lying. Nic could just go back to Alabama for the rest of the summer, try to put some time and space and obstacles between the two of them while he feigns distraction over his _family emergency_, hope maybe Tom will just get sick of the distance and horny enough to want someone close and easy, someone _not Nic_. If he did that, there’s at least a _possibility_ it could just taper off naturally so that by the time the season starts, there’s enough distance between them to just go back to being the not-really-buddies that their team already thinks they are. Sure, Nic would be heartbroken and miserable to have to keep Tom at arms-length and just pretend not to know what it feels like to be closer, just pretend not to miss it or want it anymore while he watches Tom go back to his regularly scheduled Heterosexual Hockey Star life like Nic never even meant anything to him – but Nic could do it, if he had to.

But he can’t do the first part, the fake emergency or whatever; of course he can’t. He’s a terrible liar, for one, and for two, he generally tries not to be a slimy, duplicitous coward, so. It’d be hard to look himself in the mirror, if he pulled something like that.

So, right. _Next._

All that’s left, really, is to force the issue: he’s going to have to ask Tom what they’re doing here, ask him to define their relationship, ask him what he sees in their future. Nic can imagine watching Tom deflect and deny and squirm and twist and eventually, slowly, unwillingly, but_ finally_, talk his way into the inevitable – that there _is _no future.

Nic feels it like a physical pain in his gut, just imagining the agony of watching that understanding dawn, of the knife slowly twisting in his own chest as Tom finally, finally realizes why this is completely impossible. It sounds awful – like a scenario to be avoided at all costs, _except_. Except maybe that’s the only way for Tom to finally acknowledge the truth, is to force him to work it out on his own.

“You fall asleep in there?”

Tom sticks his head in the shower door with a grin, then slips inside, arms going around Nic’s middle. He presses himself along Nic’s back and noses along his hairline behind his ear, walking him forward so he’s out of the spray and Tom’s the one standing under it.

“Asshole,” Nic can’t help grinning, while Tom shakes his head like a dog, flinging water everywhere, “you can’t just commandeer another man’s shower.”

“Can, and did,” Tom grins back, slick wet lips sliding against Nic’s shoulder, teeth biting down, teasing. “Now move your ass, we’re gonna be late for the gym.”

Tom turns him toward the shower door and smacks Nic’s wet ass, hard enough to force a real yelp out of him, but then spins him in close again before he can move to get out, kisses him under the spray, long and deep.

Nic feels his resolve melting, right along with his spine.

_After dinner_, he decides when they finally come up for air.

It can wait until after dinner.

-

He doesn’t bring it up after dinner.

Or all day Thursday, or after dinner Thursday night.

Friday morning in the shower he’s back in the same place all over again, telling himself it has to be done, trying to get his nerve up.

They’re not working out today, is the thing, so it’s already 10 a.m. and all they have planned is packing Tom’s truck, lunch at a shawarma place a few blocks away that Tom’s been insisting Nic has to try, then the drive up to the lake house.

Well - . The c_ottage_.

In Ontario, Nic has learned, if it’s on a lake then it’s called a cottage, even when it’s three times as large as an average family home.

So fine, after dinner tonight at the cottage he’ll bring it up with Tom. He already made Tom order all the ingredients he needs to make his mom’s Shrimp Creole, because Tom’s never had it before, and Nic had wanted - .

Whatever.

It really doesn’t matter anymore.

So great, he’ll cook dinner and do the dishes, like that will really soften the blow, and then.

He sucks in a long, deep breath, then ducks his head under the falling water and blows it out as slowly as he can, trying to steel himself.

There’s never going to be a time he _feels like_ doing it, he reminds himself – but that doesn’t change the fact that, as Nic’s dad would say, it _still needs doin’_.

-

“What’s with you?” Tom wants to know after dinner, when they’re lying on the giant swinging king-sized mattress that’s suspended from the beam above Tom’s back porch.

The Shrimp Creole was a hit; Tom loves spicy food just like Nic does, so he went heavy on the Cayenne. He tried to fight Tom about the dishes, but Tom just hip checked him away from the sink and shoved him out of the way, insisted fair is fair and that _in this house, the cook doesn’t clean_.

So Nic went out to lie on the porch-bed-hammock-swing thing, watch the sunset, and try to sharpen his resolve.

When Tom came out of the house he pulled down the sunshades on Nic’s end of the deck, creating a privacy screen between them and any looky-loos passing by out on the lake, then crawled onto the bed with a grin, letting out a satisfied groan and pulling Nic back into his chest, nuzzling his face into Nic’s neck and wrapping a heavy arm around Nic’s middle.

Normally Nic would melt back into him, but tonight, instead, he went stiff as a board, and _not_ in the good way.

Tom gave it a minute, kissed Nic’s neck a few times and skated that big paw of his up and down Nic’s torso, gave him a chance to relax. Once he realized it wasn’t happening, the question was inevitable.

“Nothing,” Nic lies, and Tom just snorts.

“Try again,” he prods, insistent, and Nic takes a deep breath. Time to rip the band aid off, probably.

He turns over to face Tom, heavy weight of Tom’s arm still hanging over his waist, and tucks his face against Tom’s chest.

“I think maybe,” he starts, but that’s not right. He needs to _ask_, not _tell_. Tom needs to get there on his own, or this will never work.

“What I mean is,” Nic starts again, “what do you think we’re, like. Or, I guess - how do you think this is gonna, y’know. _Work_. Like, once the season starts up?”

He feels Willy shrug.

“Same as last season?” he says, all nonchalant, and Nic nods. That’s pretty much what he expected Tom to say.

“But,” he starts again, trying to choose his words carefully, “I mean. I don’t think that it will be. Or like, that it _can_ be. Like last season. You know?”

“Not really, no.” Tom squeezes him close, nudges his nose against Nic’s temple. “C’mon, what’s really going on?”

Nic sighs into Tom’s shirt, then raises his face, makes himself look Tom in the eyes.

“They were already giving you shit last Spring, about your moratorium on hooking up.” He raises his eyebrows, but Tom just snorts.

“Like I give a fuck,” he shrugs again. “Let ‘em give me shit, I’ll give it right back. It’s how we do.”

Nic pushes up on an elbow and looks down at Tom, exasperated.

“Oh, really?” He rolls his eyes. “So you think after a whole year of them not seeing you with anyone, nobody thinks there’s anything up with that? When you used to pick up all the time? And now you never do, and you don’t even go out anymore, yet you don’t have a girlfriend? Why don’t you think about that for a minute, bud.”

Tom’s eyebrows furrow, his face suddenly looks -. Singularly not happy, which always makes Nic’s stomach twist. But he reminds himself: that’s the whole point of this.

Not for Tom to_ like_ it, but for Tom to, like. _Figure it out_. Understand. Fucking _admit_, finally, that this whole thing is, in fact, a Capital-B, Capital-D, _Big Deal_, and that they can’t just keep glossing over and talking around and avoiding it, sticking their heads in the sand like some kind of overgrown, flightless birds.

They can’t keep this separate from their real lives forever.

They can’t – _keep this_. Not much longer.

But of course Nic can’t say that, he can only raise his eyebrows meaningfully at Tom, all _you know I’m not wrong_, and keep quiet, and wait for Tom connect the dots.

But Tom just shakes his head, shakes that caught-out look off his face and shrugs again.

“So I’ll go out a little more. _We’ll_ go out a little more. It won’t kill you to spend a little more time bonding with the boys, it’ll be fun, eh?”

He tries a grin, but Nic just nods slow, half-hearted and non-committal.

“And the girls?”

Tom makes an impatient little sound, annoyed.

“The girls are – whatever. There are always girls around, it’s not like I can’t just. I mean, I’ll just – y’know. Buy some drinks, flirt a little, dance a little – it doesn’t. I mean, it won’t _mean_ anything, it’ll just be, like. To make it _look like_ something, for the boys. Just to stay off the radar or whatever. Right?”

Nic feels his stomach twist again, at the very idea of Tom, like. Putting on some _show_ or. What the fuck _ever_, just to - .

Jesus.

Nic swallows carefully around the sudden lump in his throat, and gives another barely-there nod. He bites his lip and breathes in slow.

“And what about your family?”

“What about them?”

Nic sighs, and lets his eyes flutter closed.

“Tom,” he says, soft, and he knows well enough by now - when emotions are high and Nic says Tom’s name like _that_, the response will be quick, and sharp.

“_What_? Just. What, Nic? _What_ about my family?”

His jaw is tight, because he already fucking _knows_ what- Nic can see that, can hear it in his voice. But fine, if he wants to insist on having it spelled out, Nic can do that, too.

“You gonna keep avoiding your family for the rest of the summer, so we can keep playing house and living in some kind of dream world where no one else exists? Gonna just keep on not seeing your brothers, or your friends? You don’t think they’re starting to wonder what the fuck is going on, why you’re just suddenly never around? Especially now that they know _I’m _here, that _I’m_ the one taking up all your time?”

Tom doesn’t respond, just rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling of the porch, the slow-spinning fan swaying gently in the evening breeze. Finally he lets out a long breath, scrubs a hand over his face and leaves it there.

“Why are you doing this?”

It’s muffled from behind his palm, and it sounds – small, in a way Tom Wilson just shouldn’t sound.

Like, ever.

Nic feels the pressure building behind his eyes, the weight pressing down on his chest, but -.

But he knows he’s right, he knows this is the only way.

“I’m not _doing_ anything, I’m just - . Listen, _please_.” Nic feels like he’s short of breath, like he’s been running or something, swimming underwater. He has to concentrate to keep from gasping, to breathe in slow and steady and force himself to say what needs to be said.

“I know you don’t want to think about this shit. I know you want to just act like it will all work out fine if we just ignore, like, fucking -. _Reality_, but. I mean, it’s _reality_, Tom. You have a family, and a team, and a whole life where I just don’t -. Where I _can’t_ really. I just – I don’t _fit_, I don’t_ make sense – _not for you, not for your life, and. And we have to, whatever. _Deal_ with what.”

Tom rubs his hand over his face a few more times, then rolls up and off the swing in one smooth movement, starts prowling back and forth at the foot of the bed with his jaw clenched and his fingers curled into loose fists. He paces for a minute like a big, pissed off cat.

“_Why_,” He says finally, and his voice sounds pained, more plaintive than pissed. “Why do you just -. Keep. Fucking. _Insisting_ that this isn’t really what I want, that I don’t understand what I’m getting into or what I’m – whatever. _Giving up_. Do you really think I’m that fucking stupid, Dowd? Because – Jesus _Christ_, I know you’re supposed to be the smart one here, and I get that like, fine, maybe we need to -.”

He waves his hand like that will explain something, and keeps pacing. Nic’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen Tom this worked up since -.

Well, maybe ever.

“So we still have some shit to figure out - fine! I’m trying, okay? And I can try harder, but god_damn_ it. Do you really think I’m _such_ a _fucking_ moron I can’t understand what’s at stake and decide for myself? Is that what you think?”

“Of course I don’t think you’re –,” Nic tries, eyes wide, but Tom cuts him off before he can even get the words all the way out.

“Then why the fuck won’t you _believe me_? Why can’t you just -.”

He stops, like he’s suddenly run out of steam, and sinks back down onto the end of the swing. He hunches over, digs his palms into his eyes and sucks in a deep, shuddery breath. Nic stays right where he is, still lying there on the stupid swing, propped up on his elbow. He examines his cuticles carefully in the silence, like he’s never seen anything so mesmerizing, and waits without breathing.

“So you’re just gonna break it off?” Tom says finally, and he sounds – incredulous, like he can’t believe what he’s saying. “I mean, that’s what this is all leading to, right? You just want to end it, and be done with it.”

Nic scrambles to sit up, knee walks across the mattress to fling himself against Tom’s back, wrap his arms around Toms’ shoulders.

“Not because I _want_ to,” Nic says into his hair, blinking his stupid eyes to keep the stupid tears that are forming from, like, escaping down his cheeks without his fucking permission. “Of course I don’t _want_ to break it off, I - . You’re - .”

He has to stop, has to swallow down the knot in his throat.

“I’m just trying to be - realistic. About the way things are going to _look_, like – to people. Especially people close to you, who know you. They’re going to know something is different, Tom, going to notice something’s going on, and -.”

_And?_ Nic’s brain keeps prompting, taunting him. And, _what, _exactly?

_And then Tom will be offended and humiliated because someone he cares about suspects he’s gay. _

_And then he’ll have to break it off and distance himself from Nic, to prove them wrong._

_And then he’ll resent Nic for making them suspicious of him in the first place, and it will be awkward to even be around each other anymore because Nic will just be a reminder of that embarrassing period in Tom’s life that he’d prefer to never be reminded of, or ever think about again. _

Nic is still clinging to the few scraps of dignity he has left, so he bites his tongue and doesn’t actually say any of those things out loud. But that doesn’t mean he’s not thinking them, which is just –.

God, this whole thing’s got him so fucking _fucked up_.

Tom makes a low sound in his throat and shrugs, pulls away from Nic and slides over, putting enough space between them that he can turn, look Nic in the face.

“Fuck realistic,” he shakes his head stubbornly, “that’s a bullshit excuse.”

Nic’s on his knees already, there’s nowhere else to go, no further show of contrition he can make.

“I’m not trying to make an excuse,” he whispers, so maybe Tom won’t notice how wobbly his voice is. “I’m trying -.”

Nic feels the tears spill over, then, and they’re falling right down his face, right in front of Tom and there’s no pretending they’re not. And it’s all just so fucking dumb, he’s such an _idiot_, because he knew from the start - he _knew_ – that going down this road with Tom fucking Wilson would lead right here – to Nic crying like a baby on this ridiculous, ostentatious, oversized swinging bed, in the wrong house in the wrong fucking country, so far out of his league that can’t even -.

He just _can’t even_.

He drops his chin to his chest, but there’s nowhere to hide his red, teary face, and he’s never in his life felt more like a weak, pathetic little -.

“You’re trying to convince me I don’t want you.”

Tom’s voice cuts through the runaway spiral of Nic’s thoughts, his hand slides over Nic’s.

“You’re trying to tell me I shouldn’t choose you, that it’ll be too hard, that you’re not worth the trouble.”

Then Tom’s other hand is under his chin, tipping his embarassingly wet face up, looking at it, and Nic wants to die, wants to melt away into nothing.

But Tom’s eyes flash, bright and wet.

“And I’m telling you,” he says, “I’m telling you, that’s bullshit, and I’m not falling for it.”

His voice wobbles, when he says it.

Like, really wobbles, and there are tears in his eyes, and he doesn’t look weak, or pathetic. He looks – beautiful.

He looks brave.

“You can’t just _decide_,” Nic says, helpless, flapping his free hand uselessly. His heart feels like it could beat right out of his chest, somewhere between hope and despair.

“Yes I fucking _can_,” Tom insists, jutting his chin out stubbornly. “And you can’t stop me.”

His voice is getting stronger now, picking up steam.

“I’ll date you if I fucking feel like it, and you don’t get to decide for me. I’ll tell my family about you, and introduce you to my brothers, and you can’t tell me I don’t want to. You’re not the fucking boss of me, Dowd, okay, and I’ll do whatever the fuck I feel like with my own life, no matter how much trouble it is, and no matter what you think about it. How do you like that, huh?”

He sniffles a little, but he’s grinning now. He scoots closer, clamps his big hand down on Nic’s knee and squeezes. Nic lets out a snotty, disbelieving sob of a laugh, and Tom scoots even closer. He puts his forehead against Nic’s, until they’re breathing the same air.

“I’ll love you,” he says, and Nic can’t breathe, he can’t fucking _breathe_, “if I want to. And I do, okay? I do.”

Nic can’t speak; how could he ever, after that? But he can nod, so he does.

He nods his head against Tom’s, throws his arms around Tom and kisses him, lets Tom kiss him back and pet his hair and pull him closer and closer until Nic’s just straight up sitting in Tom’s lap, being held like a fucking child but he just can’t care, not now.

He lets himself be held and kissed and petted, until he can breathe again. And then he breathes for a while, until he feels somewhat – mostly - confident that he can speak again.

And then he says_, I love you, too_, soft and low into Tom’s ear, and Tom smiles that big fucking smile, squeezes him with those big fucking arms.

“No shit, babe,” he says, and rolls his eyes. “Who’s the smart one, now?”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://makeit-takeit.tumblr.com/), if you're into that kind of thing!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Flightless Birds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23224654) by [AerPods (Aer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aer/pseuds/AerPods)


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